


A True Account ... By Ser Bronn Of The Blackwater

by LibKat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Continuation, F/M, Missing Scenes, Season Seven Fixes, Season eight speculation, not cersei friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-03 02:23:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17275319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibKat/pseuds/LibKat
Summary: In his old age, Bronn decides to set the record straight about the events of the Wars of Summer and Winter.





	1. An Important Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> This is the big canon continuance fic I've been talking and thinking about forever. I'm hoping to get this finished and posted before the new season starts. (If you know me, stop laughing.)
> 
> I'm adding another indicator that this is not a Cersei friendly fic. If you found your way here because of the J/C tag, turn back now.
> 
> This will mostly be composed of Bronn's ... um ... insights and missing scenes until I reach season seven. I'm not planning to do much revisiting of events we've already seen on screen. There may be some things that happen in the books that I will take a different slant on. I'm mainly holding to show canon for now.
> 
> Disclaimer: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones and these characters belong to a whole bunch of people who are not me. I will return them undamaged when I am finished playing with them.

Chapter One

An Important Discovery

 

The story was buried far back in the newspaper, just a little snippet, overlooked by most everyone as they slurped a morning coffee on their commute.  It wasn’t any bigger on the paper’s website.  You had to click through about four other web pages to reach it under the Lifestyle banner of all things.

It got a little larger play in the academic press.  But it wasn’t until three years later that things really exploded.

***

“Good morning.  Welcome back to Westeros Wakes.  I’m your host, Mermin Varys and to start our second hour today we have a very special guest.  Dr. Brien Westerling is the Casterly Professor of History at Lannisport University and was directly responsible for the discovery that is rocking the academic world, reenactors and cosplayers alike.”  The TV personality smirked coyly at the camera.  “Dr. Westerling, what can you tell us about your discovery?”

“Thank you for having me on the show Mr. Varys.”  The academic fiddled with the knot of his tie, looking nervous to be sharing a stage with the most popular morning personality in the country.

“It’s our pleasure, Dr.”  Varys reached out a plump, manicured hand patted his guest’s arm.  “We so rarely have a guest with your academic qualifications on the show.  Now start the story from the very beginning.  How did you come to make your stunning discovery?”

Dr. Westerling grew a bit more confident under the dulcet tones of the host.  “Several years ago, I was leading an archeological dig in the Westerlands.  As you probably know, the West has more unexplored historic sites than any other part of the country.”

“No, I did not know that.”  Varys made his patented wide-eyed, half smirking expression for the camera.  “Please go on.  I’m fascinated.”

The academic’s enthusiasm grew.  “We had been excavating near the ruins of The Crag …”

“The Crag?  Isn’t that the ancestral seat of your family, the Westerlings?”

“Yes, it is, though it’s been abandoned for centuries.  Still, I was thrilled to make such a monumental discovery on my own home turf, so to speak.”

“Do tell us, what was this ‘monumental’ discovery?”

“Hidden in the crypt beneath the family sept was a watertight box marked the ancient Westerling sigil of six white shells.  It was absolutely necessary that we open the box under strictest laboratory conditions.  There was no telling what damage sudden exposure to our modern climate might have done to the contents.  But when we finally opened the box, what we found inside was wondrous.”

Varys began to display a bit of impatience with his guest.  “Please, Dr., tell the viewers what it was you found.”

“It was a manuscript, written in Middle Common Tongue, preserved for almost a millennium, hidden away because of the content.  It took a year of conservation efforts to guarantee that it could be read without falling to bits, but we achieved it.  We spent the last two years transcribing the content and having our translations verified by other scholars.  It is the most complete volume that we know of dating from that period.  Most of the early reconquest documents were lost in the burning of the Citadel six hundred years ago.”

“And _what_ was in this manuscript that was so important?”

“It would take too long for me to really give you an answer to that, Mr. Varys, but the title should give your viewers a clue.”  Dr. Westerling paused dramatically.

“It’s called ‘A True Account of the Wars of Summer and Winter as told to Maester Brin by Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Lord Westerling of the Crag.”

“Bronn of the Blackwater?”  Varys was intrigued despite himself.  “Isn’t he just a legend?  The ne’er do well who always seemed to show up in stories to crack a joke or play a trick and then disappear?”

“Apparently not.  He was a real historical figure who was witness to the some of the most important events in Westerosi history.”

Dr. Westerling went on for some time about the importance of his discovery without really saying anything about what the manuscript actually said.  Varys attempted to redirect him several times, without any success.  Finally, he just talked right over the still babbling professor.

“And that’s all the time we have.  I’d like to thank our guest, Dr. Brien Westerling.  I’m sure we’ll be hearing about his marvelous discovery for years to come.  Please stay with us.  When we come back from the break, Chef Walda will be demonstrating how to get perfect puff pastry every time.”

As the show went to commercial, Varys removed his mike, smiled weakly at his guest and walked off the set.  As he passed his executive producer, he whispered. “You tell Tyene Sand that if she ever cancels on me at the last minute again, I’ll make sure those photos from Southyros find their way onto the Westernet.  Nobody’s going to keep watching a show about a flying septa after they’ve seen her getting fucked in the ass by a dildo the size of my arm.”


	2. An Old Man's Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bronn begins his tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos for the first chapter. It feeds the beast.
> 
> For those of you following my other multi chapter fics, I have not abandoned them. I hope to post new chapters sometime this month.

Chapter Two

An Old Man’s Truth

 

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, Lord Westerling of the Crag, sat wrapped in blankets and shawls before the roaring fire in his small solar, waiting impatiently.

 _This_ _is what happens when you’re stupid enough to be a lord who gets old.  Instead of my sons waiting on me, catering to my every whim, hoping to inherit my gold, Hal’s already lord in all but name, and the others come whenever they fucking feel like it._

He’d expected better from his youngest.  Brin was the one who was most like his mam, sweet-natured and honest to a fault.  The others were too much like himself.

Bronn heard the jingling of a maester’s chain, which was a sure sign Brin was hurrying from one place to another.  He came puffing in, out of breath.

“Sorry, Father, Marta’s been worrying about Tyr again.  She’s concerned that he’s not sleeping at night.”

“Marta’s worried my grandson is sneaking out to meet the dairymaid, you mean.  Boy’s not careful, he’s going to make a whole range of Hills before he’s twenty.”  Bronn couldn’t help but chuckle at the boy’s randiness.

“I gave the same recommendations I’ve made every other time she’s asked for my advice.  She doesn’t seem to believe that I can’t brew up some concoction that will keep his member flaccid until she’s ready to give up her baby boy.”  Brin’s lip twisted in a wry expression that Bronn had often seen looking back from his own mirror.

“Well, I didn’t call you all the way from the Citadel to cater to my good daughter’s nerves.  She’s less rat faced than most of the Freys but just as twitchy.”

“Why did you call me home, Da?  Your message made it sound urgent.”

“It is urgent, boy.  Did you bring paper and quill with you, like I asked at supper?”

“Yes, Da.  It’s right here.”

Bronn peered through narrowed eyes to where his favorite son sat before him.  It was hard for him to remember the days when he could see well enough to catch a hawk, or a dragon, on the wing with a single shot.  At ninety some name days, by his estimation, his eyesight wasn’t so good anymore.

“All right then, son.  I’ve called you here because I’ve decided to tell a tale and I need you to take it down.”

“Any of the household scribes would be happy to do that for you, Da.  I’m flattered that you want me, but it’s not necessary.”

“Oh, it’s necessary, boy.  I’m going to be telling the ugly and unvarnished truth, not the silly, romantic stories folks get from the minstrels.  I’ve had enough of the past being fancied up, real people being turned into marble statues to rival Baelor the fucking Blessed.  Do you know that there’s folk who don’t even realize that Jaime Goldenhand and the sister fucking Kingslayer were the same bloody man?”  Bronn slammed his fist on the arm of his chair.

_There was a time that the fucking thing would have broken under my fist.  Now I barely make a thump._

“I won’t have it, Brin.  My friends fought and fucked and lived and died as real people do.  I won’t have them forgotten for the pretty lies that their descendants want to tell about them.”

“Ah, this is about Lord Brywin.”  Brin tilted his head and gazed intently into Bronn’s eyes.

Bronn ground his teeth in disgust.  “Course it’s about that fucker.  He’s got too much of his great-grandfather in him and not enough of Jaime.  He’s prowling through the Westerlands making sure that everyone shows their ‘proper respect’ for the Lannister name, having the fucking minstrels sing The Rains of fucking Castemere again.  Calling himself the Lion of Lannister.  Jackal of Lannister more like.”  Bronn hawked some phlegm from his throat and spat onto the floor.  “Carrion eater if ever I saw one, just like old Tywin.  I wrote my liege lord, about how his brother, little lord shithead, is overstepping himself and making a mock of everything old Jaime fought for.  The bloody man hasn’t even answered me.”

“Well, he is a bit busy as the Hand of the King.”  Brin used his soothing, maester voice on his father, but Bronn wouldn’t have it.

“He needs to be a bit busier as Lord of Casterly Rock.  And until he is, I aim to make sure that someone, somewhere remembers my friends as they were, not how these weaklings wish they were.  Lord Brywin the Lion, bah!  If he saw a White Walker, he’d shit himself and die.”

Brin’s concerned expression penetrated Bronn’s haze of emotion.  “Hal isn’t going to happy about this, Da.  The last thing he wants is to anger a Lannister whose favorite song is The Rains of Castamere.”

“What Hal don’t know, won’t hurt him.”  Bronn declared.  “That’s why I need you to write it down for me.  When it’s done, you can take it with you back to the Citadel.  Put it on some shelf where no one will find it for a few years.  Then you can see it’s discovered and everyone will know the real story.”

“I don’t know, Da …”

“I need you to do this for me, Brin.  I’ve not asked you for much.  I didn’t even try to talk you out of going for a maester instead of staying with the family.  But I’m asking now, son.”

Bronn went into a coughing fit at the end of his plea, raising the rag never far from his hand to cover his mouth.  Brin rose and fetched the cordial that kept Bronn’s old lungs clear and helped him take a few sips.

“Thank you.  You’re a good boy, son.”  Bronn’s hand patted Brin’s shoulder.

“All right, Da,” Brin said gently, then his tone sharpened.  “I’ll help you.  I’ll write down your words and tell your story the way you want it told.  But if I feel that you are endangering yourself, I will insist we stop.  And you _will_ do everything I prescribe to keep you healthy.  You’ll rest when I tell you, eat and drink only things I approve.  Keep your hands off the housemaids.  I’ll go to Hal if you argue with me and that will be that.”

Bronn opened his mouth to argue, but Brin raised a finger.  “Atch!”  Brin huffed.

“Oh, all right.  If that’s what it takes.”

“I want to hear you say it, Da.”

Bronn raised his liver-spotted right hand from where it rested on the arm of his chair.  “I swear that I will take all advice given by Maester Brin to heart and follow all his instructions involving my health.  On my honor as a knight.”

“Very well, Da.  Let me fetch you some watered wine, and then you can begin.”

_Well, that was easier than I expected._

***

Balancing the half-full goblet on the wide arm of his chair, Bronn stroked the short white hairs that, in his opinion, still made for a handsome beard.  “Where to start.  Where. To. Start.  That little shit, Tyrion, told the beginning of the story pretty well.  Too much emphasis on his own accomplishments and not enough credit to the accomplishments of a certain sellsword.  The Chronicles of Tyrion the Wise, fuck me bloody!”

“How do you know what Lord Tyrion’s book says, Da?”

“Your mother read it to me when he sent it to us.  She liked reading to me of an evening.  Liked reading to you little ‘uns as well.”  Bronn’s lips quirked in a small smile.

“I remember, Da.”  Brin’s smile truly was just like his mam’s.

“I had her repeat the bits where I appeared until I knew them like I knew my own name.  Argued over it with that little fucker till the day he died.  Mostly over what kind of cunt names _himself_ “the Wise,” but over the rest of it, too.  He never did admit that he’d given me short shrift.  But he did get most of the facts right, and everyone knows them now.”

“An arsehole stole a girl from another arsehole.  Both men were powerful and both men were stupid. They sent the country to war because of it, with a nutter of a King overseeing it all.  The Prince arsehole got killed, the nutter King got killed, the new King arsehole took the throne and fucked everything up for years.  A boy got taken North to be raised as a bastard.  A different boy got thrown from a tower.  A Northman came South and fucked up many things until he eventually lost his head.  That Northman’s self-righteous wife grabbed a dwarf and took him off to her nutter of a sister, with a roguishly handsome sellsword along for the journey.  The arsehole worthless King died and an even more worthless one took the throne.  The North and South went to war with all the brutality and stupidity you’d expect.”

As he thought on what knowledge his son needed to understand the truth completely, Bronn paused for another sip of his wine.  It was almost criminal that Brin had chosen one of the good vintages to water down.

“Now everyone always goes on about what a great commander Robb Stark was.  They forget the story’s been told mostly by his family or by people who’ve never commanded men in the field.  A few lightning quick attacks in the right places and his army would have buggered off back North where it belonged.  But he was facing the Lannisters, who were so weighted down with all the weapons and supplies their gold could buy until they were about as fast and maneuverable as one of those Essosi elephants.”

“Jaime tried to move quickly at the Whispering Wood, once he had command of his own men.  It might have worked if there had only been the five thousand troops he was expecting.  Instead, Robb Stark met him with almost his entire army and took Jaime prisoner.  And that arrogant bastard spent the next year tied to a stake in a dog pen, sitting in his own shit.”

“While the Riverlands were suffering, the dead arsehole King’s two arsehole brothers each decided that their worthless nephew didn’t deserve the throne.  He wasn’t really their nephew but a bastard born from Jaime Lannister, _the Kingslayer_ , fucking his bitch of a sister, Queen Cersei.  Both brothers claimed to be the rightful King, declared their bastard nephew a usurper, and called their banners to make ready for battle.  And who wouldn’t want to kill Joffrey, that weaselly little turd.”

“'Course the two brothers each declaring himself the rightful King caused a problem.  Renly, the stupid tulip, thought the fact that nobody liked Stannis made himself a better choice for the throne, law and tradition be damned.”

Bronn’s face tightened as he looked into his son’s eyes.  This opinion might not be popular.  “The one question I never got Lady Brienne to answer was why she chose to follow Renly.  Everyone, especially Jaime, was always on about how she was the most honorable knight ever to take a piss wearing armor.  But they all ignored the fact that she chose a pretender over the rightful heir.  Stannis was the older brother.  He was next in line, miserable cunt or not.  Jaime claimed that she was in love with Renly at the time.  That may have been true.  The woman was always doing stupid things for love.”

“Renly Baratheon was the Lord of the Stormlands, Da.  He was Tarth’s liege lord.”

“Aye, and she should have followed him in any war for the Stormlands.  But he had no right to the throne.  Being handsome and elegant and pretty-mannered doesn’t change the order of succession.”

“Now, Stannis was a right bastard as well as the rightful heir.  That cannot be denied.  He’d have done anything, _did_ do anything to win the throne.  His red witch birthed an abomination that killed pretty Renly in front of Lady Brienne.  She got the blame and had to run.  She wound up in the Stark camp with Lady Catelyn.  And that’s where she saw him.”

***

The pen at the center of the camp stank to high heavens and the form inside was barely a man, more a filthy, shambling thing that came at you in your worst nightmares.  A thing your dreaming self prayed would kill before you had to look on its terrible face.

Brienne heard the whispers as she passed through the camp in Lady Catelyn’s wake.

Kingslayer.  Oathbreaker.

Surely they could not mean her.

Lady Catelyn shuddered as the stench of him reached them, but paid the prisoner no further notice.  From the corner of her eye, Brienne saw his head raise, his teeth gleam in a feral grin as they walked past him.  She redirected all her attention back to her lady and kept her hand on her sword.  But she had seen enough to recognize him.

The camp was _not_ talking about her.

Brienne had laid eyes on him only once before when she was just a girl.  It had been enough to leave a powerful impression.

King Robert had come to Storms End, and all the Storm Lords had gathered to pay homage.  By then, she was her father’s heir, so she and her septa had accompanied the Evenstar. 

Brienne still remembered that first glimpse of him, golden and beautiful in his shining armor and pure white cloak.  He was far more regal than the loud, fat man receiving homage from the gathered Lords.  He might have been the Warrior himself, descended from the heavens to walk among the mortals. 

Her septa noticed her where her attention had landed.  Roelle took great delight in grasping her shoulder, digging in with sharp nails, and whispering to her, “That is the Kingslayer.  He is an oathbreaker, a man without honor.  Turn your gaze away from him, you shameless girl.” 

Young as she was, she knew that there was nothing more important than honor and she saw his gold was actually dross.

Brienne fervently hoped her service to Lady Catelyn would not bring her into contact with the Kingslayer.  Having had her own beloved King assassinated before her eyes left her with no sympathy for one who broke his oath and killed his liege lord.

Brienne’s hand tightened on her sword hilt as she passed him.

***

“And that, my boy, is where the story really begins.”


	3. Through The Riverlands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Jaime and Brienne travel through the Riverlands, their animosity changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I want to thank the readers who have left comments and kudos. I will reply to your comments in the next couple days.

Chapter Three

Through The Riverlands

Bronn had barely begun his tale when his son insisted that they end for the night.  When Bronn protested, Brin reminded his father of his promise, on his honor as a knight, that he would let Brin monitor his health and follow Brin’s dictates. 

After a long, long, long night, for Bronn slept very little anymore, he waited impatiently for Brin to join him in his solar again.

Bronn stirred a spoon in the bowl of mushy bread and milk that had replaced his usual breakfast of salted fish and ale.  On his good daughter’s morning visit to verify that he still breathed, Marta had relished placing the slop before him, accompanied by a goblet of the juice of pressed apples. 

_Nursery food!  This is what I’m reduced to.  We ate better on campaign during the Long Night!_

Brin came bustling in, as maesters seemed to have no other pace than bustle. 

“Ah, I see the kitchen got my orders.  How did you find your breakfast, Da?”

Bronn felt it was forbearing of him not to throw the bowl at his son’s head.

“Now, Da, don’t scowl so.  Those little fish give you the wind something terrible.  If I’m going to be closeted with you for hours each day, I need to be able to breathe.”  Brin tried a mild version of his father’s famous crooked grin.

“I’m over ninety fucking name days old, boy.  Man who’s lived that long has a right to some wind if he …”. Bronn’s voice trailed off.  “Gods, I sounded like Walder fucking Frey there for a moment.  If I do that again, son, be kind and put me out of my misery.”

Brin chuckled as he sat down and sharpened his quill. 

Bronn’s tales of Walder Frey had made being compared to him a deadly insult in the Westerling family, the cause of many scraps between his boys.  It had gotten a bit awkward since Marta was old Walder’s own granddaughter, but Bronn wasn’t about to change just because Hal had the poor taste to choose a Frey as his bride.

“All right, Da, how far did we get last night?  Oh yes, Lady Catelyn Stark had decided to trade Ser Jaime for her daughters.”

“Aye.  The good and oh so noble Robb Stark wouldn’t trade his most valuable hostage for a couple of little girls.  Good policy for a ruler but a shit policy for a brother.  Now maybe he didn’t know how Lady Sansa was suffering under those cunts, Joffrey and Cersei.  But they cut off her own father’s head right in front of her, so he should have been able to guess.  For all that Lady Catelyn could be a nasty piece of work, she had a genuine mother’s love for her children.  Word came that her little ‘uns in the North were taken by that Greyjoy cunt.” 

Bronn shook his head at the memory of that betrayal.  It had taken everyone in Kings Landing by surprise.

“And there was some fucking Northern lord bitching about his sons being killed by Jaime.  What did he think he was bringing his boys to, a village fete?  They were in an army at war, trying to kill Lannister men, same as Jaime was trying to kill them.  They’d have been trying to kill me if old Tywin had sent us to join Jaime’s men.  Instead, the old bastard did _his_ best to kill Tyrion by putting us both at the front of his own battle.”  That still rankled with Bronn, even more so since he’d had sons of his own.  He might not always like his boys, but dammit, they were _his._

“That Northern cunt wouldn’t let it go, and Lady Catelyn was afraid if he succeeded in killing Jaime, her girls would die for it.”

“This was Lord Karstark you are talking about, Da?”  Brin made a notation on his page when Bronn nodded in answer.

“Lady Catelyn took Brienne, who was her sworn sword and made Jaime swear a bunch of oaths: to return her daughters to her, not to fight against Tullys or Starks ever again, other ridiculous demands that Jaime wouldn’t be able to meet, even if he wanted to.  Anyone with the good sense the gods gave a goose should have known Jaime would say anything to get free of his chains.  And of course, Jaime couldn’t shut the fuck up, just like always, talking about Cersei, insulting Brienne.  He was even stupid enough to compare his honor to the great Ned Stark, poking the Lady about her husband’s supposed bastard son.  It was a miracle that Catelyn Stark didn’t order Brienne to run him through right then and there.”

“Instead, she released him and sent him and Brienne off by themselves to get back to Kings Landing as best they could.  Soon as he was out of his cage, Jaime being Jaime, he just had to keep riling up “the wench.”  When he and Brienne talked about that long walk through the Riverlands, it was mostly about how much they hated one another.  But even if you hate someone, when they’re the only person you have to talk to, you do get to know them.

***

They had left the river and were deep in the woods of the Riverlands.  The poor hanged women and their murderers were several days behind them.  The Kingslayer had changed a bit since seeing her with a sword in her hand.  There were still more insults in an hour’s time than she had _heard_ in full day at Renly’s camp, though more had likely been said there which she did not hear.  But Lannister would attempt something resembling conversation as well.  Brienne remained wary.  Any part of herself that she had ever given away to any man was always turned in some way and used against her.

The monotonous landscape of never-ending trees did not provide much diversion for either of them.  Brienne tried to keep her eyes from the thin, filthy form of the Kingslayer.  The few attempts that he had made along the journey to clean himself up had not been successful against the many months of imprisonment he had experienced.  Though she was loyal to Lady Catelyn by oath and by choice, she could not help thinking that not even the most vicious dog would have been treated as Lannister had been in the Stark camp.

Her sympathy for her prisoner was short lived as his drawling voice interrupted her thoughts.

“I’ve never been able to understand,” her prisoner began mildly as they trekked along a game trail. 

Things almost always went the worst when he seemed mild.  He’d begun that way when he’d brought up Renly and Ser Loras, and she’d nearly killed him for it.

“I’m sure there are many things you do not understand, Kingslayer.  Honor and duty foremost among them.”  Brienne observed, her tone dry and unencouraging.

“Yes, yes, I’m the worst man who ever lived.  Never mind that the Stormlands continued to love a fat, stupid sot who brought the country to the brink of ruin.”  Lannister shot right back.  “My father is not a loveable lord.  But the Westerlands sees him for what he is and one of those things is a leader worth following.”

“Or he’ll kill your entire house.”  Brienne spat out.

“Tywin Lannister indulges no one.  Robert Baratheon did nothing but indulge himself.  Why did the Stormlands love him so?”

“It was a tragedy, what happened to him.  His beloved was stolen away from him, and he never saw her again.  Of course, it changed him.”

“Yes, such a tragedy that he spent the rest of his life boasting about his broken heart while he fucked any woman who would open her legs.  The true tragedy was that he was victorious at the Trident instead of Rhaegar.”

“You cannot mean that!  Rhaegar was a monster.  He kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark.”  Brienne was appalled that anyone, even the Kingslayer, would express so depraved an opinion.

Lannister leveled a long, serious look at Brienne.  “Yes, that’s what everyone has come to believe.  But I was there, at Harrenhal, at the infamous crowning of the Queen of Love and Beauty.  I saw how Rhaegar looked at her.”

“Lust,” Brienne said, her disdain dripping in her tone.

“Oh, yes, lust was there.  Lyanna Stark was a beautiful woman.  Nothing compared to Cersei, you understand, no one is, but quite lovely by all other standards.  But it was more than simple lust.  There was fascination in Rhaegar’s eyes, appreciation … hope.”

The Kingslayer stopped walking and turned to look her full in the face.  Brienne also stopped, well short of him.  If he was going to be infuriating, best she keep her distance.

“I also saw how Lyanna looked back at him.  It was not the look of an embarrassed girl receiving unwanted attention from a stranger.  Somehow Rhaegar and Lyanna had met.  Somehow they had developed tender feelings for one another.  Of that, I have no doubt.  Rhaegar did not steal an unwilling maid from her loved ones and defile her.  She chose the better man, far better than Robert Baratheon ever dreamt of being.”

“And you are sure of this?”  Brienne asked, her eyes narrowed in doubt.

“Lyanna Stark was a true daughter of the North.  Women warriors are not an unknown thing up there, and a Northern girl’s spirit is not so thoroughly crushed by her parents and septas.”  An odd expression crossed Lannister’s face before he took on his too familiar smirk.

“Tell me, Lady Brienne, if a man became so obsessed with you that he kidnapped you from your home, your family, your beloved betrothed, if he raped you and kept you captive as his plaything, what would you do?  It’s a scenario that stretches the imagination, I know, but answer as truthfully as you can.”

Brienne did not even have to give it a moment’s thought.  “I would fight him.”

“And if he and his companions overpowered you and he took what he wanted?”

“I do not like the direction of these questions, Kingslayer.”

“Come now, wench, be honest.”  Lannister’s smile showed all his teeth.  “You’d geld him the first chance you got.  You would watch and wait and plan.  Eventually, your jailers would grow complacent, and you would gain a weapon.  After a time, your rapist would believe you conquered.  A night would come when he would fall asleep at your side and then you would cut him, pillar and stones.  Lyanna Stark was a direwolf of Winterfell.  She would have taken her vengeance or died trying.”

Brienne said nothing, arrested by the possibility that the accepted truth was wrong.

“What most people forget about Robert’s Rebellion,” he went on, “is that it didn’t begin when Lyanna disappeared with Rhaegar.  Her father and brother came south with a few bannermen to challenge the Prince for her return, yes, but they didn’t come with the full might of the North and the Stormlands at their backs.  Why was that?  Was it because they knew she hadn’t been as unwilling as Robert Baratheon claimed?  The rebels didn’t rise until Aerys killed a Lord Paramount and his heir for no other reason than that it entertained him.  They answered Ned Stark’s call for rebellion, not Robert Baratheon’s.”

Lannister shook his head and turned to begin walking again.  “Robert got his vengeance in the end: at the Trident, and in history.  He got to tell the story the way he wanted to believe it happened.  Bold and beautiful Lyanna reduced to a violated martyr, Rhaegar cast as the loathsome villain, and himself the grieving lover,” the Kingslayer’s voice rose theatrically, “never to recover from his sorrow.  The gaping hole left by his tragic love story unfillable, no matter how much he ate or drank or fucked.”

Again, he stopped and turned to look at Brienne.  It seemed important that he make his point to her.   

“Robert never had to confront what his marriage to Lyanna would truly have been.  He had already he fucked other women up and down the kingdoms throughout his betrothal to his ‘beloved.’  His overwhelming love and devotion to her were not enough to keep his breeches closed and his cock dry of other women’s juices.  I expect, in the end, his life with Lyanna would have been much the same as his marriage to my sister.  She would have had to stand by while he brought whores into her home, and struck her if she dared to complain, just the way Cersei was forced to.”

Brienne twitched with discomfort at feeling a moment of sympathy for the Queen.

“Losing Lyanna was the best thing that could have happened to Robert.  He wove himself a tale so tragic that no one ever expected him to rise above the venal, gluttonous beast he was always fated to be.  He could eat and drink himself insensible to bury the pain of Lyanna.  He could waste money on whores and useless spectacle because it helped him forget Lyanna.” The Kingslayer’s voice rose again in sarcastic whine.  “He never had to pay attention to ruling because it was boring and when he was bored he couldn’t stop thinking about _Lyyyyaannaa_!”

Lannister took a deep breath.  “The realm spent years with a whingeing brat as its King.  It has been just as disastrous as having a madman on the Iron Throne.”

Brienne mulled over what she had heard.  Her father sometimes spoke of King Robert’s wildness in his youth.  Stormlanders has taken his spirit as a point of pride.  Were the seeds of the careless King he grew into already sprouting in the youth Lord Selwyn had known?

While she had been contemplating, Lannister had continued to talk.

“… and everyone who knows the truth about them questions why I was willing to father my sister’s children.  It was because I _do_ love her and hate the idea of her being with any other man.  But if I am honest, and I am capable of being honest when I wish to be, I did it, in some measure, as vengeance on the man who killed my Prince.”

The Kingslayer’s eyes became like chips of green ice.  It caused a shiver to run up Brienne’s spine.

“For all the whores and dairymaids, tavern wenches and noble ladies he fucked, for all the bastards he sired, Robert Baratheon had no trueborn heirs.  His line is dead, as extinguished as Rhaegar’s.”

“But the world calls King Joffrey a Baratheon, Prince Tommen and Princess Myrcella as well.”

“A lion does not care for the opinion of the sheep.  Opinion, as well as names, can be changed easily enough with patience and with coin.” 

The Lion of Lannister bared his teeth.

“You cannot truly be arrogant enough to believe that,”  Brienne said, her voice low with unease.

“My father’s gold bought my sister a crown.  It bought his grandson a throne.  Why should it not buy his great-grandson a name?  My father plays the game better than anyone else alive.  I’m sure he’ll see a lion on the Iron Throne before he dies.”

“That cannot happen.  The Storm Lords would never stand for it.”

“The Storm Lords are broken and scattered to the winds.  My father will ensure that they stay that way.  Tommen will likely be resident in Storms End as soon as he comes of age.  A Lannister army at his back will end any opposition that could come from what remains of the Stormlands.  I’ll make you a wager, Lady Brienne.  A gold dragon says that a Lannister, openly claiming that name, will be on the Iron Throne within … let’s say twenty years to give my father’s undoubted plan time to come to fruition.”

“It will never happen, Kingslayer.  The dragons will return before a Lannister sits the Iron Throne.”

“So you accept the wager?”

Brienne gave a brief nod of her head.

“If we both survive that long, I’ll be on your doorstep to collect.”

They walked along in silence for a bit.  But Lannister seemed still to be in a talking mood.

“They say Ned’s younger girl is very like Lyanna.  I didn’t see much of Arya Stark, but what I did leads me to believe they’re right.  She has spirit, that one, not a weak posset of maidenly virtues like her sister.  Arya set her direwolf on Joffrey over some childish confrontation.  My sister wanted me to take her hand as a punishment.”  The Kingslayer’s voice softened.  “I was always glad someone else found her before I did.”

He shook himself as Brienne gaped at him, appalled yet again at Lannister’s casual attitude to cruelty.

“Ah well, you’ll have your hands full with her.  I expect she’ll be an even worse traveling companion than I am.”

***

“You can’t possibly know what happened, what they talked about, Da.  Lord Jaime and Lady Brienne were entirely alone for weeks, months as they crossed the Riverlands.”  Brin protested.

“You should remember Jaime better than that, son.  Man would not shut up, ever.  I swear he had a story about near every step they took on that trek to Kings Landing.  And he told them over and over.  I about killed him on the way to Dorne, what with the Lady Brienne this and wench that.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Everyone knows what happened then.  The Bolton’s bully boys caught ‘em, made to rape Brienne and Jaime intervened.  But that wasn’t enough for our Jaime, no. He had to keep pushing, had to keep being clever, and got his sword hand cut off for his troubles.  Brienne cared for him as best she could on the way to Harrenhal, including kicking his arse to get him out of the doldrums and back to wanting to live.”

***

Brienne felt the Kingslayer weakening as he leaned heavily against her, tied together as they were on the back of a single horse.  “The Lovers,” one of the sellswords had mockingly named them.

Lannister burned with fever and drifted in and out of consciousness.  The stink of his rotting hand hanging around his neck was overpowering.  More than once they had both needed to lean over to retch down into the road rather than on each other.

They were supposed to be less than a day out from Harrenhal, but the brutal leader of the sellswords, Locke, had been saying that for two days now.  Brienne had desperately done her best to keep the Kingslayer fighting for his life.  She had talked herself hoarse.   She had expended more words than she normally used in a month.  She had exhausted every topic she could think of to keep him wanting to live, wanting to have his vengeance on the ones who had maimed him.

Every topic but one.

Brienne had not brought up the Queen.  Besides her own distaste for the perversity of the relationship, the outlaws who surrounded them would sometimes eavesdrop on their conversations, seeking fodder for their jeering.  She did not know what Lannister would do if their filthy talk turned seriously towards his sister.  Another beating would surely end his life.

She would not ask about Queen Cersei, but,

“Tell me about your children, Kingslayer.”

He roused enough to raise his head, and glassy eyes met her own.

“My children?”

“Yes, the King, the Prince and the Princess.  For all that they carry the name Baratheon we do not know much about them in the Stormlands.”

“What is there to say?”  Lannister mumbled.  “They are children.  I have little enough to do with them.”

“But you are their …” Brienne began.

Lannister interrupted, his voice harsh. “Their father?  If anyone had suspected that, their heads would have been on pikes in minutes.  With mine and Cersei’s alongside to keep them company.”

“I was going to say you are their uncle.  Surely you spent time with them as a family?”

“I am a Kingsguard.  My time is not my own.”

“Did you not guard them?  How did you spend the hours when you did?”

“I do not guard the children very often.  When I do, I stand.  I follow them from place to place.  I watch for trouble.  That is what a Kingsguard does.  Didn’t your time with Renly teach you that?”

“Even though I was hardly King Renly’s favorite, we still interacted.  He spoke with me.  I was in his council meetings.  Surely your children wanted to know their noble uncle?”

“It was too dangerous.  I could not appear unduly interested in them lest it draw the wrong kind of notice.  The children look very like me.  If we were seen together often, someone might perceive the truth.” 

Life was coming back to Lannister.  He was exasperated with her.  If she annoyed him sufficiently, it might sustain him for the rest of the journey.

“How do they resemble you, Kingslayer?”

He sneered at the name.  Good.

“They are golden of hair and green of eye.  They are tall, and Joffrey and Myrcella have lithe figures.  Tommen would be my image as a child if he were not a bit … plump.”

“But it’s said that you and your sister look very like one another.  Is she not golden-haired and green-eyed, tall and lithe?  Observers might simply assume that they resemble you because you resemble your sister.”

“We could not take any chance of arousing suspicion.”

“Is it not more suspicious that you ignore them?  You were famously close to your sister, even before it was known how … intimate your relationship truly is.  _I_ would think it strange if a man, residing in the same keep, thrown into their company most days, paid no attention to his beloved sister’s little ones.”

He made no answer.

“The boys at least must have wished to learn from the uncle renowned as one of the best swordsman in the Kingdoms.  When I was a child, I would have pestered you to the brink of madness to gain your instruction.  You would have had to undertake my training to gain a moment’s peace.”  Brienne could not help but smile at the thought.

“The boys haven’t received much in the way of sword training.”  Lannister bit out.

“King Robert allowed that?  His prowess with his war hammer was legendary in the Stormlands.  I would have thought that he would have overseen at least his heir’s training himself.”

“Robert didn’t lift anything heavier than a full tankard for the last ten years of his life.  If he had tried to raise his war hammer, he would probably have toppled over onto his fat ass.”

“It astounds me nonetheless.  Neither of the Princes has had training with arms?”

“I think the Hound tried to work with Joffrey for a time before Cersei put an end to it.  They are royalty after all.  They have the Kingsguard to do their fighting for them.”

“Having the Kingsguard didn’t do Rhaegar any good at the Trident,” Brienne observed.

“Rhaegar should never have been at the Trident!”  Lannister’s voice rose with impatience.  “He should have been in Kings Landing, deposing his madman of a father.  If Aerys had been removed from the throne, Rhaegar might have been able to call a truce with Ned Stark, at least long enough for Stark to see his sister and determine if Lyanna was truly an unwilling captive or a reckless girl in love.  If Stark could have been brought to terms with Rhaegar, Tully and Arryn would have followed him.   Robert’s Rebellion would have collapsed.  But Rhaegar had to prove himself a better warrior than Robert Baratheon.”  The Kingslayer shook his head.  “Rhaegar was decent enough with lance and sword as a tourney fighter, but he was the Prince of Dragonstone.  His job was to command and rule, not to be in the thick of battle.  That was what he had been prepared for.  He had never fought against a man determined to kill him.  You don’t know who you are, what you can do until you have faced that.  It is the test of whether you are a true warrior or just a swordsman.  It’s a test that Rhaegar failed.”

“Then I would think it even more important that the Princes learn to defend themselves.”

“Cersei would not hear of it.  She did not want them to be injured in training.  Robert did not care enough about his sons to face down Cersei’s wrath if he had insisted.”

“Perhaps if they had looked more like him, if Robert had seen something of himself in the boys, he would have cared enough.”

“All Robert’s bastards look like him.  He never cared a fig for any of them once he tired of fucking their mothers.  It’s just as well.  All he had left to teach was how to eat and whore and spend money that he did not have.  The boys were better without his attention.”

“But what man’s attention did those children have?  Their father did not show any care for them, neither of their fathers.  They had no grandfather with them.  Who was there to teach your sons how to be a man?  To show the Princess the safety that is to be found in a father’s comforting embrace?  Who has had the raising of them?”

“Their mother has seen to their raising.”

“The same mother who keeps her sons weak, unable to defend themselves?  The mother who convinced you that you could have no part in your own children’s lives, not even that of a doting uncle?”

“Cersei loves her children.  You should not speak of what you do not know.”

He was angry now.  Brienne could feel the emotion welling up in him.  He would not die before they reached their destination.  She could still fulfill her oath to Lady Catelyn.

***

“When they arrived at Harrenhal, the mad maester Qyburn treated his wound, but Jaime always said it was Brienne who saved him.  Jaime always used to smile when he thought of Harrenhal, even though it should have been one of the lowest points in his life.”

“Qyburn was an _ex_ -maester, Da.”  Brin reminded his father firmly, before adding in an inquiring tone.  “Lord Tyrion’s Chronicle contains much speculation about what happened to Lord Jaime at Harrenhal.” 

“Aye, it does.  And not a shred of truth to any of it, according to Jaime.  Tyrion was like that sometimes, when he worried at a question he couldn’t get answered.  He’d find the conclusion that most pleased him and soon it was the truth as far as he was concerned.  Bit him in the arse, when it came to Queen Danaerys.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Da.”  Brin gave his father the half censorious, half teasing frown that seemed to be part and parcel of being a good maester.  “To your knowledge, what happened next?”

“Once Jaime was able to travel, that cunt, Bolton, sent him on his way with a troop of men to get him back to the capital, but the Leech Lord insisted Brienne stay behind as his henchman’s hostage.  While Jaime wasn’t happy about it, he’d been raised to believe that gold would overcome any obstacle, solve every problem.  Old Tywin taught his children that lesson with every move he made and every word he spoke.  Brienne’s father would come to her rescue.  They would not dare to injure the daughter of a Lord if there was profit in keeping her safe.  Jaime wanted to believe that, convinced himself that it was true.  He was still obsessed, yearning to get back to his bloody sister.  He left Brienne there with those animals.”

***

Brienne stood stock still in the attic room in Harrenhal.  She could hear the breathing of the guard outside her door.  Ser Jaime’s footsteps no longer echoed in the tower, only in her mind.

He had sworn that he would see the Stark girls safely returned to their mother.  That was all she could hope for in this terrible place.  She believed in him, that he would honor the oaths he had made.  Ser Jaime was a man who had done many wrong things in his life.  But when he’d been faced with the most terrible choice, he had chosen rightly.

How many of the horrible things he had done since had been to spite the Kingdoms that scorned him?

Brienne now knew that he was still deserving of the title of knight, capable of a great and terrible honor.  She would hold that knowledge close as she faced the fate to come.

With a single word, Ser Jaime had simultaneously saved and damned her.

He still seemed to expect that she would be delivered from the coming horror.  With the same confident blindness that led to him losing his hand, he expected she would be held safely until ransomed.  Having never been truly without hope or resource, Ser Jaime still did not understand what men with nothing to lose, no future before them beyond the next day, were capable of.

Brienne knew her father would offer everything he could to her captors, but Tarth was not a wealthy House.  The ransom would be nothing close to what Locke would be expecting from an island full of sapphires.

Brienne’s knees buckled, and she fell to the floor as she remembered the rough hands on her body, the failure of her size and strength to protect her.  The torment had only been delayed, not avoided.

On her knees already, Brienne offered a prayer to the Warrior for courage and to the Maiden for resolve.  She would pray to the Mother for mercy, but there was none to be found in Harrenhal.

Brienne had never prepared herself for the possibility of rape.  She had been told her whole life that she would never engender desire in a man.  Her inevitable future husband would be repulsed by her.  He might not even be able to bring himself to complete the breeding act often enough to get an heir on her.

When she had turned her back on her girlish dreams of love and family, Brienne had put the idea of physical intimacy behind her as well.  In her armor, with her sword, she was no longer a woman, a female creature who needed to worry about such things.  When she left her home behind her, she found that the maester who’d brought her into the world had tucked a pouch of moon tea in with the various medicines and remedies he had gathered for her use.

On reaching King Renly’s camp, she had traded the moon tea to one of the washerwomen for her laundry services.  

The disgusting bet on her maidenhead had not opened her eyes.  Most of the men were after the prize money offered for deflowering her.  Some thought that the road to Tarth lay between her thighs.  She had not considered that a few had no need for the gold or the land that was her birthright.  They had participated in the bet simply out of cruelty, the pleasure debasing of her spirit as great a spur to their lust as a pretty face and form would be.

Not even Ser Jaime’s frank talk after they were captured had made Brienne consider the reality of being held down while rough hands groped at her most private places.

She would fight when they came for her.  She would continue to fight no matter what they did to her.  As long as there was strength in her body, she would fight in hopes that they would be forced to kill her.  If not, it would be as Ser Jaime described on their long trek through the Riverlands.  She would wait and watch, and when one of them made a mistake, she would gain a weapon and slay as many as she could.  And she would repeat that as often as necessary until they finally killed her.

Brienne rose from her knees.  She looked around the room for something, anything, she could use as a weapon.  She swung her arms and bent her knees to loosen up her muscles.  She had to be ready.

She was not some fragile thing to be broken by brutal men.  She was Brienne of Tarth, daughter of the Evenstar, victor of the melee at Bitterbridge, Kingsguard to Renly of House Baratheon.  And Brienne of Tarth she would remain, until her final breath.

***

“What happened to make him return for her?”  Brin asked.

“As Jaime told it to me, he needed to stop not far from Harrenhal, still being quite sickly and weak.  He rested against a tree stump and had a dream.  The one thing I could never get out of him, no matter how drunk I got him, was what that dream was about.  But he woke up a changed man.  Or at least a man who was starting to think he needed to change, was able to change.  When he found out that the sellsword had already refused the ransom offered by Lord Tarth, he dragged those Bolton troops right back to Harrenhal and that, oh that, he would never shut up about.

“He really did save her from a bear?  I always thought that was an exaggeration.”

“Mad cunt jumped unarmed and one handed right into the bear pit and put himself between the critter and his lady.  Now some of the versions have it that she was naked.  That wasn’t true.  Jaime said she was in the most gods awful gown anyone had ever seen.  But naked makes a better dirty story.”

***

Bronn sat in his solar after Brin had left for the night.  One of the servants would be coming along soon to help him to bed.  He cradled a cup of wine in his hands, the one unwatered cup that he was now allowed to have in the evening.

_Perhaps I wasn’t so wise to choose Brin for this.  There are things I do not want to tell him, my one son who still thinks his da a hero._

Bronn liked to complain about Tyrion’s Chronicle.  And indeed, the little fucker hadn’t been as generous in praise of Bronn’s contributions as he might have been.  But at the same time, he hadn’t been as frank about Bronn’s shortcomings either.

_Never a word on how I turned my back after the Blackwater, taking fancy clothes and coin and a bloody knighthood from that fucker Tywin, while Tyrion was stuck in a storeroom with no one but Podrick and that cunt Pycelle to see to him.  No mention of how I rode away during his trial, seeking the bride and the castle that Cersei dangled in front of me and leaving him to die._

_No sane man would have faced the Mountain.  I’ve no doubt that I would have died, faster even than Martell did.  I was bloody good with a sword, but I wasn’t strong or quick enough.  Though at least **I** wouldn’t have died because I was fucking stupid.  Still, I didn’t need to leave Tyrion there on his own.  If I’d been there, I might have seen him onto the ship when Jaime freed him, kept him from killing his old man.  Don’t know how that would have changed things, but it couldn’t have gone much worse than with Cersei in charge of all._

_Well, it’s not my story I’m telling.  It’s theirs.  They don’t deserve to get turned into a mess of silly ballads for vapid, high-born maidens to sigh over.  So if, while I’m telling their story, I have to tell the unsavory bits of mine, so be it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that in canon Jaime left the tourney at Harrenhal before the crowning of Lyanna as the Queen of Love and Beauty. But this is canon divergence and I didn't think the scene worked as well if Jaime had not witnessed it himself.


	4. Terrible News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to Kings Landing, Brienne and Jaime receive news that will alter their future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still trying to catch up with comments. You have been so generous with your appreciation of this and my other fics. Thank you so much.
> 
> This is the last complete chapter I have for this story, so posting will likely slow down. Please bear with me and know that I haven't abandoned it or my other multi chapters. I'm just a slow writer.
> 
> If you have ideas for missing scenes from seasons five and six, please feel free to make suggestions in the comments. It doesn't necessarily have to have Jaime or Brienne in it, just relating to them.

Chapter Four

Terrible News

Things were beginning to feel a bit dicey to Bronn.  It would not be long before his story would bring him to Kings Landing.  He would have to lay bare his shortcomings to his son.

Brin was the most level headed of his children, but also the gentlest.  He looked quite like Bronn did when he was a … middle-aged man, but his nature was all his mother. 

Bronn felt his heart clench when he thought of Jeyne, gone for almost 20 years now and missed every day of them.  If he were going to tell his son the unvarnished truth about the past, it would have to include his mercenary views on marriage.  How would his son react to the knowledge of the kind of greedy, cutthroat cunt that had been foisted on his noble mother?

“What happened after they left Harrenhal, Da?”  Brin interrupted Bronn’s fretting.

“They were on the road with the Bolton soldiers for days.  Jaime used to describe it as mind-numbing tedium alleviated by moments of stupefying boredom.  All Jaime’s thoughts were centered on his reunion with his sister and his brother.  He could not wait to don his white cloak and become the feared Kingslayer, Lion of House Lannister again, instead of a pathetic cripple covered in his own shit and vomit.  The waiting when those things were so close he could almost taste them drove Jaime, who wasn’t the most patient man to begin with, near to madness.”

“It must have been difficult for him to face returning without his sword hand.”

“He tried to avoid thinking about that, but it was.  The Kingslayer was a miracle with a sword.  I fought once in a melee that he won.  He was fast, and he was strong.  But more than that he was … elegant.  They say that watching Arthur Dayne was like seeing an artist at work, wielding his sword like a brush on his canvas of armor and flesh to create a work of terrible beauty.  But Jaime was like watching a great dancer.  Any swordsman knows the basic steps, but he made them a dance of lightning and quicksilver, strict to training when needed, but improvising when it would be the most effective.  You could almost hear music that only he was moving with.  But it was only in losing his sword hand that Jaime found himself.  He eventually thought the trade was worth it.  But that took a long time, and I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Lady Brienne always seemed sad when she spoke of that trip to Kings Landing,”  Brin remembered.

“She had good reason.  They were on that road when they learned of the Red Wedding.  Brienne took her oaths more seriously than any other person I’ve ever encountered, and I encountered any number of Starks.  Even with all that came after, a part of her never got over feeling she had failed when she was not there at the Twins to fight and die trying to protect Lady Catelyn.”

***

Over Jaime’s objections, they stopped at an inn for a midday meal and rest.  His captors seemed anxious for news of the war, having been isolated on the road for some time.

His guards were relaxing after their first meal not cooked over a campfire since leaving Harrenhal.  Jaime knew that they couldn’t keep pushing the men without relief, but the mediocre wine and the dubious company of tired looking tavern wenches held no charm for him. 

"They lay with lions" still echoed in his memory.

Jaime bolted his portion of watery stew and charred mutton and escaped to the stable as soon as he could, claiming he wished to check on his horse.  Any strains or injury might delay them from going onward.  In truth, the quiet stable was more suited to his lowered spirits.  None of Bolton’s men wished to tear themselves away from the taproom to accompany him, and Jaime slipped quietly out the door.

Jaime half leaned against, half sat on a barrel near the back of the stable.  He was still weak from the year of deprivation and the fever that had followed his maiming.  He was weary from having to project strength and confidence before his escorts who were also his enemies.  The stable was dim and cool.  Jaime wondered what would happen if he crawled into one of the stalls with his bedroll and let sleep overtake him.  His guards might panic if they were not able to find him and pelt off in all directions to recapture their missing charge.  The thought of it made him chuckle. 

It was there that Steelshanks Walton brought Jaime the news.  He seemed to expect that Jaime would be overjoyed that the Starks were dead and the army of the North broken for all time.

“How did you come by this tale, Walton?”  Jaime asked.

“Men rode in with the news and now the whole village is talking about it.  There’re hedge knights in the tavern bemoaning the loss of employment now that the war is surely ended.”

“This war won’t be ended while Stannis Baratheon lives.  And then there will be the war after that and another one to follow.” Jaime said.  Under his breath, he added, “My father has seen to that.”

“Do me the courtesy, Walton, of allowing me to be the one who tells Lady Brienne.”  Jaime knew his voice was more intense than Walton would think the situation called for.

“The … lady … already knows.  She overheard when Ser Bertram brought me the news.  She took herself off almost immediately.”

“Did you send no one after her?”  Jaime asked, his voice rising.

“The woman is not my charge.  She may come along with us or see herself off to the Crone’s hell.  I was ordered to take you safely to Kings Landing, only you.”  Walton stated in a huff.

_Brainless, stupid, fucking cunt!  Bolton must have needed all the men who could put two thoughts together to help with betraying his liege lord._

“Did you see which way she went?”  Jaime bit out.

“Off toward the edge of town.  Probably went into the woods to lick her wounds.”

If Jaime had still had a right hand, it would be currently knocking Walton’s teeth down his throat.

“You’ll wait patiently while I fetch Lady Brienne.  Have your men ready to continue on as soon as we return.  Keep their carousing to a minimum.”

“You do not command me, Kingslayer.”

“I do if you expect to receive any reward from my father when we reach the capital.  And don’t forget, your liege lord just sold his soul to the lions and the throne.”

Jaime stalked off in the direction that Walton had indicated that Brienne had taken.

Finding her was easy.  She had left a trail through the woods that a blind man could follow.

Jaime was glad that he had the foresight to move deliberately rather than rushing to her side.  He found her sitting with her back against a tree; her face pressed to her knees and her arms covering her head.

Jaime had little experience with weeping women.  Cersei despised tears and only pulled them from her arsenal of weapons when nothing else would work.  The few times she had turned water filled eyes on him, he had kissed or fucked her out of her sulks.

That would not work with Brienne.

Even if he was inclined to try, which he assuredly was not.

As Jaime approached her, he saw that Brienne’s knuckles were torn and bleeding.  The tree against which she sat showed damage to the bark. 

Gods, lacking a sword to vent her emotions through the catharsis of violence, she must have used her fists.

Did he even want to try to address her about this news?  He was not her friend, not really.  What right did he have to attempt to offer her comfort for an atrocity done surely at his own father’s command?

He must have made some noise, alerted her in some way, though he would swear he had been still as a statue.  Brienne raised a face ravaged with grief.  Everything about her was red: her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, her nose, even her freckles subsumed by the scarlet of her emotions.

“I … I don’t know what to say to you, my lady.  Except that I am sorry.”  Jaime approached where she sat.

“Did you know?” Brienne bit out.

“Of course not!  How could I have?  We have been on the road together for months.”  Jaime did not know why the question wounded him so deeply.  They _were_ _not_ friends.  She had served his enemy, an enemy that had happily seen him penned up like a dog for months on end.

“Roose Bolton might have told you.  At some time when I was not there, he might have shared your father’s brilliant plan.”

“He did not.”

“And if he had?  What would you have done?  Would you have laughed and congratulated him on being bought by Lannister gold?”

Jaime took a few cautious steps closer to loom over where Brienne sat in all her misery.  “I do not know what I would have done.  I don’t see that I could have stopped it if had I known.  I was still a prisoner, even if the Leech Lord had turned his cloak.  But I would not have offered congratulations.”  Jaime’s voice shook with anger at being so accused.

“You could have told me had you known.  I would have done … something.”  More tears glistened in Brienne's eyes.

“And gotten yourself killed!  Neither of us was in any state to stop the juggernaut that my father set into motion.  It would have rolled over us as surely as it rolled over Robb Stark.”  Jaime found himself surprised at how much the idea of Brienne dying disturbed him.  He had been trying to kill her himself not long ago.

“It was my duty to die with my lady, _for_ my lady.  I have failed again to protect the one who I was sworn to.  I have failed.”  Brienne’s voice broke on that last word.

She needed to be reminded that she still had things to live for, things to accomplish, much as he had on the road to Harrenhal.  Jaime could not accuse her of weeping like a weak woman.  The gods knew she had every right to her tears.  What else might bring her back to her usual mulish self?

“If you had died, what would become of the Stark girls?  They are still our charge.  With their parents and brother dead, with Winterfell fallen, they will be in need of friends, of protectors.  The North is in either Iron Born or Bolton hands.  Sansa and Arya's value as pieces in the game of thrones has plummeted.  But you can still see those girls to safety.  You can fulfill the oath you gave to their mother.”

Resolve began to return to Brienne's face.  “Yes, the Stark girls must be feeling very alone and afraid.  Your father still must release them for you to fulfill your oath to Lady Catelyn.  I can still protect them, take them somewhere safe.  But where?”

Jaime marveled at Brienne’s naïveté in thinking Tywin Lannister would give a wet shit about any promise Jaime had made to a dead woman.  But life was back in her voice, and she no longer looked on him as if he were an enemy.

“They have an aunt at the Eyrie.  She is not the most reliable of women.  Her temperament is … uncertain.  But she is Catelyn Tully’s sister.  The girls should find sanctuary there,” Jaime said.

Brienne's expression became distant as she contemplated.  “The Vale is quite remote, removed from Kings Landing.  It could protect them, keep them safe.  The Arryns have been allies of the Starks for years.”  Her blue eyes met his, life and purpose in them once more.  And remorse.  “Forgive me, Ser Jaime, for doubting you.  I should have known that you would not lend yourself to such a terrible, _dishonorable_ scheme, no matter how much it might benefit you and your house.”

Jaime thought about that for a moment.

“I fear the benefit to House Lannister will be briefer than my father would like.  He has shown that not only will he slaughter entire noble familes when insulted; he will not even honor guest right.  To win he will affront the very gods.  The North and the Riverlands may be broken.  The Vale may be made impotent by a capricious woman and a child lord.  But the Reach and Dorne are yet strong.  The Martells hate the Lannisters with all the venom in their serpent souls.  That is another consequence of my father’s need not only to be the victor but to be seen by all as victorious.”

Jaime shook off the memory of little Rhaenys and Aegon in their crimson shrouds.

“The Tyrells have already begun their gambit.   Margaery has been betrothed to Joffrey to seal that alliance.  I do not doubt that there are schemes afoot for them to rise from the secondary position that they find so chafing and ascend into their own golden rose laden future controlling the Iron Throne.”

“I cannot believe that Queen Margaery would plot so.  She seemed a proper lady and not terribly intelligent during her marriage to King Renly.”

“That is the talent of the Tyrell women.  They are so busy distracting you with their beauty and pretty manners that you never see the knife.  You only feel it as it is buried in your back.  The Little Rose was paraded before me several times, to tempt me to leave the Kingsguard and take my place as heir to Casterly Rock with her as my wife.  Margaery Tyrell is neither unintelligent nor proper.  Joffrey will have his hands full with her in more ways than one.”  Jaime chuckled a bit.

“But surely, Ser Jaime, you must be pleased to see the enemies who so mistreated you vanquished?”  The question was in Brienne’s voice if not in her words.

“No, truly not.  I’d have happily killed Robb Stark myself if he’d come within reach of my blade.  But I wanted, I _needed_ to defeat him in the field.  His victory at the Whispering Wood was a fluke, a trick.  I wanted another chance to battle against his army and prove myself the better commander, the better warrior.  I did not want him murdered at dinner.  I did not want his wife and his mother to be butchered like sheep.  And now I shall never have that chance to redeem myself, to erase the stain of my defeat at the hands of an inexperienced boy.  That mark shall haunt me forever, worse than the slur of being the Kingslayer.  I know what I did to Aerys was right.  But my defeat by Robb Stark?  That was my own arrogance and stupidity, blindly believing in third-hand reports instead of sending proper scouts myself.  I shall have to live with that embarrassment forever thanks to my father’s double-dealing.”

“You still have time to redeem your name, Ser Jaime.  You will start by upholding your oaths to Catelyn Stark.  You can continue by being an advisor to your King, your son.”  Brienne said, her voice bracing and stalwart again.

Jaime was supposed to be comforting her, not the other way around.  They would see if either, if both of them could regain any of the shards of their shattered honor when they reached Kings Landing.

***

“It surprises me,” Brin said, “that Lady Brienne remained with Jaime all the way to the capital.  She must have surely known that retrieving Lady Sansa was a lost cause after she had been married off to Lord Tyrion.”

“Aye, but they didn’t know that had happened while they were on the road.  The Kingdoms were so enamored of that cunt Joffrey’s wedding to the Tyrell girl, who had time to gossip about the Imp and a traitor’s daughter?”

“You were there, weren’t you, Da, when Lord Tyrion and Lady Stark were wed.”

“No, I wasn’t at that wedding, son.  The likes of me weren’t welcome with all the fancy folk.  I was busy distracting Tyrion’s woman from making some kind of scene at the ceremony.  Shae had a temper, she did, as Tyrion learned to his regret.”

“Is she the one he mentioned in his Chronicle?  The one who gave evidence at his trial?”

“The bitch who perjured herself at his trial then tripped over her small clothes right into Tywin’s bed.  But she hadn’t shown her colors yet.  She still acted as if she loved Tyrion and he surely believed he loved her.  She was Sansa’s handmaiden.  Acted like she loved that girl as well.”

“Didn’t she give evidence about Lady Sansa, too?”  Brin asked, shock in his voice.

“She did and all.  Parroted back every fucking word mad Cersei gave her.  I can forgive her for Tyrion, almost.  Shae might have convinced herself what she felt for Tyrion was love and he turned on her, rejected her harshly.  He wanted to keep her safe from his sister and his father, though the girl was too stubborn and angry to see it.  I can even almost forgive her for going to the old lion’s bed.  Us low-born scramblers have to look out for ourselves, and that wounded Tyrion deeper than even her testimony did.  But I cannot forgive her for turning on Sansa.  Shae was one of the few people in Kings Landing that Sansa trusted.  She knew Sansa had no romantic notions about Tyrion.  She was still as unhappy as ever to be his wife.  But the bitch couldn’t see past her own hurt feelings, and she hung a target on Sansa that stayed there until Cersei was dead.”

“How did you first meet Lord Jaime and Lady Brienne, Father?”

“I’ve told that story a thousand times to you children and the grandchildren, Brin.”

“But this is for posterity, Da.  Let’s hear the real story this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe that Brienne receiving word about the Red Wedding is at least mentioned in the books, but since we didn't see it on screen in TV canon, I wanted to put my slant on it.


End file.
